Pieces
by JustAnother13Lover
Summary: With a glass of Scotch in hand, Remy Hadley reveals how she really feels inside. Who will be there to fix the shattered pieces? One-shot. Cadley. Beta'ed by: Rabidnar.


**_A/N:_**_ This is, by far, the most depressing thing I've ever written. Actually, probably the second thing I've ever written, but still. I've been told this is a tear-jerker. I don't supply tissues._

_Thank you, **Rabidnar**, for being my first Beta. I feel honoured. :3_

_**Disclaimer: **I'm pretty sure I don't own House. I think. Maybe. No copyright infringement intended._

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**Pieces**

* * *

_Then I see your face_  
_I know I'm finally yours_  
_I find everything I thought I lost before  
__You call my name_  
_I come to you in pieces_  
_So you can make me whole_

* * *

A hundred shades of gold bounce and refract through the glass in your hand. You squint and bring it in front of your face, leaning over slightly to rest your elbows on your knees, admiring the richly coloured content. No matter how many times you try to peer through the bottom, everything turns out to be tinted and fallow; a sepia-filtered snapshot of the messed up world.

Tilting the tumbler, you look inside, enthralled by the ocher and amber fluid as they swirl and slink together in rolling waves. With only a small flick of your wrists, it lazily sloshes around, painting the inside of the glass. The motion is oddly mesmerising, capturing your unfocused gaze and forcing your eyes to follow the eddying current.

Scotch is a vicious liquid.

_Well, at least more so than water,_ you correct yourself. It coats. Then it sticks. Though, just for a split second, it hugs the crystal walls of its prison. It's as though the amber nectar does not wish to part, as though it relished its gilded captivity. You cock your head slightly to the side. _Or maybe,_ you muse, _just maybe, it's trying to climb the slippery walls and escape._

You know the feeling. Well, not of climbing slippery glass walls coated in alcohol, but of trying to escape. You're a master at escaping from the grasps of any problem flung your way - whether that be by engaging in hot, wild escapades with random women you've picked up at bars or hiding behind endless supplies of pills and alcohol. But in that exact moment, you wonder how it feels to be swirling inside that glass cage – like an animal. The thought of being held captive in such a confined space sends shivers crawling all over your skin. And what about being consumed? How does it feel about being consumed?

A harsh snort penetrates the silence.

"I am _so_ wasted," you slur into the glass cup, taking yet another gulp of the smoke and sherry tinged warmth, feeling it as it pours down your throat and settles deep down in the pit of your stomach.

And it's true. You don't seem to feel the pain anymore; you don't seem to feel anything. The numbness has already spread through your weak body, amplifying the dizzying world of mangled and contorted sounds, colours and smells. Everything seems to be less painful. In fact, everything just seems to be, well, less. _Insignificant_. The more you drink, the less concerned you become with the goings on of the world.

Not that you were concerned to begin with. You're sick of having to plaster on fake smiles every day, joking and laughing to hide your damaged self. You're sick of having to engage in trite and inane conversations with the nurses, doctors and – God forbid – patients at the hospital, their obliviousness to the fact that you really _don't _care, making you lose hope for the whole of humanity. Or at least, that's what the toxin you've been pouring down your throat tells you. You try to believe it the harsh thoughts, too. Caring will only open yourself up to get kicked to the ground again; you're sick of it. You're sick of having to pretend that your world isn't falling apart; that you aren't some messed up, loner girl with a degenerative genetic disorder. The only thing that you can be proud of is the fact that you're winning the race to killing yourself with your self-destructive ways faster than the actually disease itself is.

Before you know it, the tumbler which was once in your hand is somewhere across the room, shattered into a million shards. The smashing echoes around the room, and just as quickly, it's back to silence. You let out a sigh and lean back into the slick leather armchair, knowing full well that you'll have to clear the mess up later.

_It's not like anyone else is here to clean it up for you._

That was another thing that drives the happiness out of you. You're all alone: alone at work; alone in your house; alone in your head. The solitude and silence of it scrapes across your frayed nerves like sandpaper, leaving you shell-shocked and completely lost. Hell, even House – as damaged as he may be - has someone who actually cares for him. His caring best friend deserves much more than he gets from the narcissistic jerk, but even so, he stays.

_Who do you have?_

You'll _never_ have someone to put up with your crap, to care for you unconditionally. There _won't be anyone_ to fall back on. _No one_ you can count on to nag at you when you make stupid, crappy and possibly life-threatening decisions. _No one_ to hold your hand through the good or bad times. There was _no one_ to love, and certainly _no one_ to love you back. _Perhaps it's better that way_, a small voice whispers, _you're sick and dying. How can you even think about bringing someone else into that mess?_

A lump in your throat forms and you push back the tears, trying to stop from sobbing. Time already feels so sluggish. The white-faced clock on the far wall is the only evidence of passing time; it's long black hands move so very slowly, ticking off the seconds of your short life. Loud and harshly intrusive, the clucks somehow manages to amplify the silence. The kind of silence that comes with a painful stillness, too, a harsh, brittle one that you feel in your bones and taste on the very tip of your tongue. It feels as though one startling move will shatter you.

Thirty seconds pass like this. Then a minute. And then two.

Yet, through those slothful seconds, it feels like it does any other time; as though you're wading your way through concrete. As though your body simply does not have enough strength left in it to move, let alone fight the constant, relentless pangs of hurt and loneliness in your chest. You spend your daylight hours wandering aimlessly from room to room in your apartment, not really knowing what you're doing or why, instead just going through a meaningless series of motions. Just enough to keep you breathing.

Even sleep fails you. God seems to hate you, cursing you with insomnia, robbing you of sleep. As if your genetic curse weren't enough. Complete and utterly exhausted, yet wide awake, you would just lie in the middle of a cold, empty bed hoping for sleep to surround you – or perhaps eventually drink yourself into a frenzy until you get knocked out on the exact armchair you're sitting in now.

Every time you're sober, you tell yourself that this has to stop. That the self-loathing has to end, that you have to suck it up and make the most of the time you have left. But the repeating circuit of '_you fucked it all up_' and '_you deserve this_' and '_you'll probably be dead in a few short years anyway, providing you don't drink yourself to death, or overdose_' plays on and on in your weary head. Even after begging for a moment of escape, just one second of reprieve, your own mind fails you and reminds you of the simple facts: either way, no one would care whether or not you're dead or alive. The sheer thought alone makes you want to curl up and ask some higher deity for oblivion, but given your luck, they'd just leave you to endure this torturous suffering.

A lone tear slides down the contour of your pallid cheek. More times per day than you'd ever want to admit out loud, your eyes leak without a warning. Sometimes you'd even slip a sniffle. There was no question that your life had declined into nothing more than a pathetic, wallowing existence. You realise that you're utterly miserable, inconsolable in a way that many wouldn't have guessed possible.

_A pathetic waste of space_, your own mind sneers the words at you.

You blink a few times, trying to push back more tears. Glancing down at the glass coffee table in front of you, your eyes settle on the candle you lit earlier, sitting inside a candleholder. The flickering flame glows through the crystal, sending out streaks of oblong, white and then slightly orange-tinted speckles of colour trembling against the soft cream walls, meandering from ceiling to floor. In a way, it's beautiful: a fractured, flickering symphony of light.

Jolting you from your thoughts, you hear the unmistakable sound of your phone's ringtone. Yet again. Like the countless number of times earlier in the day, you block out the insistent noises. _If only I could block the pain in my chest just as easily_, you think to yourself. But you can't. Instead, you have to keep it all bottled up inside of you, until one day, you'll end up cracking. You'll drive yourself so far that you'll end up doing something completely stupid, like killing yourself… _What a tempting idea; at least then, the pain would be gone._

You freeze. Did you _really_ just think that?

Suddenly, the glass coffee table in front of you ends up being flung to the side, smashing upon impact with the wooden cabinet. The apartment floor practically vibrates and you know that the landlord will probably be gaining a fair amount of complaints from your surrounding neighbours. Somehow, you couldn't care less. You don't even flinch at the sound; your insides are already caked in a dark numbness, seeping into your veins, derived from a sudden onset of anger. Fists clenched and teeth gritted, you try blocking out the infuriating thoughts, to no avail. Though you're standing perfectly straight, the world feels as though it is spinning around and around, spiraling through a jumble of meaningless words and ideas.

The toxic liquor that you have been chugging down since the early hours of the morning has already taken its toll on your mind, clouding your judgment and ability to think clearly.

_No one cares about you._

_No one loves you._

_You're weak._

_You're pathetic._

_You don't deserve happiness._

_You're dying._

_You're alone._

A strangled cry, sounding more like a banshee's shriek, escapes your mouth. Why did it have to be true? You've spent your childhood hating the one person that should have meant the most to you. You never really understood your mother, and if you could, you would relive those years all over again. You've spent more than half of your life hating yourself for being such a bitch. It's because of you, that you don't deserve a shred of happiness. You've drilled it into your mind. Even if it weren't all entirely true, you would still believe it. That you don't deserve anything.

And then more daunting thoughts fill your mind. _You can just end it all._

But, could you? Would you really end your own life? _You're probably too much of a coward_, your mind sneers at you again. In another outbreak, you turn around and shove the leather armchair back, crashing into a bookshelf. A couple of hardback books drop down with a low thud to the floor, but you're so angry with yourself, you don't seem to notice. It's then that you realise that your body is trembling. No, not just that. You're body is fully quaking, shaking uncontrollably.

_So this is what it might feel like when I lose control of my body_.

You give out a slightly hysteric laugh, noting how your palms seem to involuntarily squeeze and relax, and then squeeze and relax again. You have no control over your body. No control over your life, which will probably end in a few-

"_Thirteen?_"

At the sound of the familiar voice interrupting your thoughts, your body automatically tenses. Time seems to slow down as you turn around to face the intruder. At this point, you wish nothing more than to hide. It isn't safe for you to let others to see your vulnerable side; you let them in, and you get hurt. You've already learnt that the hard way.

Then you're facing a familiar face, watching as her wide eyes roams over your appearance. You probably look like hell; flat coloured, bloodshot eyes and skin blanched a greenish-white with an oily sheen to it. Your hair is probably - unsurprisingly - wild and greasy, sticking out for no rhyme or reason. You then realise that you're still wearing the clothes you came home from the hospital in the other night, when you couldn't be bothered to change. Maybe just shy of forty-eight hours ago.

"Thirteen," the blonde calls in a softer tone. She seems slightly nervous, flickering her gaze around the scattered glass over the floor and back to your weary face, trying to piece together what happened. You try to figure out who the woman is, but the consumed alcohol doesn't seem to want to play fair. "I tried calling a few times, but you never answered. What's going on?"

You stare dumbly at the woman standing in the middle of your doorway, starting to feel slightly dizzy. And that's when it clicks: the pretty blonde that seems to be the one person who cares about anyone and everyone.

"Doctor Cameron?" The words are barely recognisable slurred syllables, due to your coarse throat. It also doesn't help how you're not entirely sober. With a throaty cough, you try again. "Cameron. Wh-what... What're you doing here?"

Cameron shuffles from the door closer towards you, squinting through the dimly lit room. Even in your semi-drunk state, you notice her attire; she's just come back from work. _Probably sent by House to check to see that you haven't overdosed_, you reason, _that would only be inconvenient for the entire department_. You notice the torn and sympathetic look on the immunologist's face as her eyes bore into your own. The pity in her eyes makes you want to gauge your own out.

"What are you doing to yourself?" Allison whispers. You don't need to answer; you know that she already knows of your self-destructing habits. You tear your eyes away from her intense gaze, finding a new interest in the wooden floors.

Although you barely know the doctor, you can't help but feel ashamed at yourself. You hate how one simple question could make you feel so small, so mortified with yourself. You hate how someone can have that much power over you, making you feel so vulnerable. You already know how it'll end.

Allison Cameron will try to fix you.

You'll let her in.

She'll make it seem as though she cares.

You'll trust her. Maybe even think of her as a friend.

Then she'll turn around and shove it all back in your face.

And once more, you'll be alone.

You can't stand it knowing that you'll eventually be left alone again, so you try to spare the inevitable pain. The words, "get out", leaves your mouth. It sounds so much more pained than you want it too.

A small gasp can be heard as she slowly snakes around the furniture in her path and her eyes fall upon the shattered glass, layering the once smooth, wooden floor. A few moments later, which seem to last a lifetime, she's standing in front of your trembling form. You still can't bring yourself to look her in the eyes. Cautiously so as not to frighten you, she places a hand on your arm, checking your face to make sure you're okay with the close intimacy. _Please go away,_ you want to tell her. You know you should tell her, but you can't bring yourself to open your mouth.

"Remy," her use of your proper name, not nickname, catches your attention. When was the last time someone had actually called you by your name? You don't remember. It always felt too personal with anyone else. But with Cameron- no, Allison, it feels right. "Remy, _please. _Talk to me. I want to help you, but you have to let someone in."

It's then that you bring your eyes up to hers; her startled blue eyes penetrates your own bloodshot ones, and you know that she can see the amalgamation of pain, sorrow, helplessness, shame, fear and guilt bubbling away inside of you. Her eyes seem to bear so much understanding, so much _love_, that your heart can't help but ache at the very thought of her sentiment. You believe her words and you _want_ to let her in. For a split second, you feel the pain subdue, something else – something foreign to you – take over. But like a rubber band, the anguished demons snap back to haunt you. As much as you want to let someone in, you feel as though you can't. Your body has been trained to hide it all; the deflecting and sarcastic comments come automatically. Those self-preservational walls that were once concealing and protecting you are now caging and suffocating you. You're too much of a lost cause to be guided to safety; no matter how hard you try, it will always be this way.

_Don't let her in,_ a voice in your head demands. _She'll hurt you. Just like everyone else. They're all out to get you. You're unlucky, __**Thirteen**__. Letting her in won't be different to how you had let everyone else in._

Yet, you wish so hard for it not to be true. For once, you wish that you could let someone in without the constant fear that you'll get hurt, or hurt the other person. You wish so hard that you weren't a monster; a cold hearted bitch. The worst thing is, it's your entire fault. People always abandon _you_. For someone who's been kicked to the curb, discarded like yesterday's paper, it must reflect on you. If you were normal, would people actually like you? Could you have friends? Like Allison, perhaps?

"…and I know that you don't know me that well, but, if you let me, I can get you the help you need…"

_Look,_ the demon in your mind sneers, appearing once again. _She's telling you that she thinks you're crazy. She wants to admit you in a mental hospital. I told you. She's out to get you, like the rest of the world. You'll never be cared about._

At some point, waiting for the assurance that she isn't out to get you, you fold in on yourself – physically _and_ mentally.

Unable to hold yourself upright any longer, your knees buckle from under you. It's so violent that even Allison can't stop you completely from falling; she only manages to lessen the fall. Moments later though, she sits on the cold wood beside you and pulls you firmly into her arms. She seems to be murmuring soft words of comfort, but your world seems only to be filled with those mangled and contorted sounds. As she wraps an arm around you, whilst gently rubbing your back, you bury your face into your hands. Rocking back and forth against her chest, you push the heels of your palms into your eye sockets in some vain attempt to distract yourself from the drowning anguish that you're sure is about to kill you.

"Hey, hey. Shh, it's okay. That's it. Just cry it out," the encouraging words fill your ears.

Trying not to fall apart completely, your teeth snap together, biting back the sobs that you fear once start will never stop. Only it doesn't work. Heart wrenching sobs rack your chest and you're sure that you're going to break. Every breath you take is ragged, coming out in sharp and shallow pants that are nowhere close to delivering the oxygen you need. Powerless over your own body, you can't stop from violently shaking.

_I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die._

"…and out. In and out. Come on, Remy. You're going to pass out if you don't breathe! In and out. There, that's it. Shh, shh. It's okay, just keep going."

You're so tired, so exhausted, that you do not protest as you drift back down into the gray, foggy depths of your mind. The tears have stopped along with the sobs. You're just there quivering into the only person who has ever seen you like this. _She's not running_, you tell yourself in disbelief. Maybe, just maybe, she's different from the rest. Maybe she'll accept you for your damaged, tainted self.

The infuriating voice in your mind sniggers. _Or maybe you're just being an idiot._

"Shut up," you whisper harshly through gritted teeth.

Allison doesn't seem to hear, or even if she does, she doesn't say a word. Instead, she pulls you in tighter, bringing a hand up to caress your cheek. Her soft thumb wipes away the drying tears on your cheek, and she lifts your head up to look into your eyes, humming soothingly all the while. A tear rolls down her cheek; for a moment, the thought of her hurting because of you is too agonising for you to bear.

And then she smiles.

With that one simple gesture, your whole world turns upside-down. You wanted to push her away, but now you can't. The relentless pounding against your tight chest seems to be getting louder and louder, reverberating through your very bones. You already know that you're slipping further and further into a spiraling downfall of self-destruction. That one, captivating, smile is all it takes. You are hers. There's no name for what you feel. Hope, relief, fear – it's somehow all of that yet none of it at the same time.

_One more time_, you promise yourself. Just this one last time you'll let someone in. If it doesn't turn out the way you hope, then you know what you have to do: _end all the pain_. You hope it doesn't have to end like that, but somewhere inside of you, you know that the woman holding you in her arms is the key to it all. You know she can fix the pieces of you that you feel no longer fit together. That nameless feeling surges through your body, beginning to tingle in your skin.

"I think- I… I think I need someone to help. I want it to be you."

For once in your life, you're willing to open up to someone. You don't know what it is about the immunologist, but something makes you trust her. You feel yourself wanting to show who you _really_ are to Allison Cameron.

"Don't worry, I'm not leaving."

* * *

_**Song:** 'Pieces' by Red._  
_**YouTube: **/watch?v=8Uw8mIcQJn8_

_Thoughts?_

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_**Updated (31/05/13): **Just went through this again and edited a few things. Also took out the huge A/N. Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, favourited etc. It means a lot to me. I was thinking about continuing this. Maybe even writing Allison's POV. Let me know what you guys think? :)_


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